to the awful eminence of the throne. In this instance, however, a
voice rose from the midst of the obsequious crowd, and burst like
thunder upon the ears of Abul Hassan. "Woe! woe! woe! to Granada!"
exclaimed the voice; "its hour of desolation approaches. The ruins
of Zahara will fall upon our heads; my spirit tells me that the end
of our empire is at hand." All shrank back aghast, and left the
denouncer of woe standing alone in the centre of the hall. He was
an ancient and hoary man in the rude attire of a dervise. Age had
withered his form without quenching the fire of his spirit, which
glared in baleful lustre from his eyes. He was (say the Arabian
historians) one of those holy men termed santons who pass their
lives in hermitages in fasting, meditation, and prayer until they
attain to the purity of saints and the foresight of prophets. "He
was," says the indignant Fray Antonio Agapida, "a son of Belial, one
of those fanatic infidels possessed by the devil who are sometimes
permitted to predict the truth to their followers, but with the
proviso that their predictions shall be of no avail."

The voice of the santon resounded through the lofty hall of the
Alhambra, and struck silence and awe into the crowd of courtly
sycophants. Muley Abul Hassan alone was unmoved: he eyed
the hoary anchorite with scorn as he stood dauntless before him,
and treated his predictions as the ravings of a maniac. The santon
rushed from the royal presence, and, descending into the city, hurried
through its streets and squares with frantic gesticulations. His voice
was heard in every part in awful denunciation: "The peace is broken!
exterminating war is commenced. Woe! woe! woe to Granada! its fall
is at hand! desolation will dwell in its palaces; its strong men will fall
beneath the sword, its children and maidens be led into captivity.
Zahara is but a type of Granada!"